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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24027508">A heart on a G-string</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/babydragon7/pseuds/babydragon7'>babydragon7</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:28:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,184</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24027508</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/babydragon7/pseuds/babydragon7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ilya finds Napoleon's secret stash of postcards and magazines.</p><p>Napoleon sighed. “How could you be a spy and still be so bloody… innocent?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>179</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A heart on a G-string</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I own nothing. I just like to play. Internet made me do it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He was not snooping. Even if he would be, it would be understandable – it was what spies did, but he was not snooping. Ilya simply dropped one of his cufflinks on the floor and the tiny thing rolled under the bed he and Napoleon were sharing for now.</p><p>Ilya’s own apartment was under reconstruction so to speak – a small bomb had been detonated there, nothing to worry about really – or so he told Gaby and Waverly. Napoleon just sighed and invited him to stay with him for a week or so until the apartment would be aired out and repainted. They were sharing a bed, because Ilya did not really trust Napoleon’s flimsy couch, and it was not an issue anyway. They always did share on missions when no multiple rooms were provided. Sometimes they had to squeeze in some very small spaces and woken up a bit tangled, but Napoleon frowned on suggestion they sleep feet-to-face.</p><p>Right now Napoleon was away on some errand or another and Ilya was getting ready putting on the blasted shirt with honest-to-god-who invented-those cufflinks. However, they had some sort of formal event today and cufflinks were a requirement.</p><p>Ilya looked under the bed. Here it was the stupid cufflink thing. It was laying beside some sort of a cardboard box, nothing suspicious from the outside and Ilya thought nothing much of it – maybe some gadgets, guns – nothing you would not expect a good spy to have, something Ilya himself would have – and did have – laying around.</p><p>He opened the box. He did not expect this. Stack of magazines, some postcards. Ilya read some magazine titles – Physique Pictorial, Fizeek Art Quartely. On the front covers were very scantily clad men, doing some sort of exercise, surely? Ilya took one postcard, looked and felt like his cheeks were doused in hot water. On the postcard, in black and white, two very muscular men were posing, light falling on their toned bodies, illuminating well-defined thighs and arms. They appeared to be getting ready for wrestling, or was it? What was it they were wearing? Some sort of… pouch on a string wrapped around their torsos, covering and not very well at that their most private parts? What the bloody buggering…</p><p>“Fuck” Napoleon had said.</p><p>Ilya lifted his eyes from the postcard. He was sitting at the foot of the bed, box next to him, magazines laying around and Napoleon stood in front of him. He looked scared, Ilya thought. Ashamed, terrified of what… of Ilya finding his stash of exercise magazines?</p><p>“I did not know you were into exercise,” Ilya said.</p><p>Napoleon looked like he wanted to vomit.</p><p>“You think that’s what they are?” he said incredulously.</p><p>“It says ‘Physique Pictorial’ and those guys on a postcard appear to get ready for wrestling. I don’t get what’s they wearing… some sort of…”</p><p>“G-string. It’s G-string. String in the butt, small piece of cloth in front to cover the privates” Napoleon still looked terrified, but now amusement seemed to creep in as well. “I’ll tell you a secret, it’s not exercise magazine. It’s erotica pretending to be decent and fooling absolutely no one”.</p><p>Ilya blushed. What was worst he felt himself blushing, the hot tide of it, making his face red, and blush looked awful on him with his blond hair, he knew, but he could do nothing.</p><p>Napoleon sighed. “How could you be a spy and still be so bloody… innocent?” He turned around and went into a living room to lay on his flimsy couch with his hands behind his head.</p><p>Well, he did not say Ilya could not keep on looking, right? So Ilya went through couple of magazines, looked at the postcards. Not exercise when. Postcards were French, he gathered, of men kissing, or just looking at each other. One card had two men both dressed in trousers but sans shirts. One was sitting on a chair and another – blond and wearing some sort of cap – was in front of him on his knees lacing his boots. It was… Ilya had no idea, only that he could not look away.</p><p>Finally, he gathered all the staff, put it back in a box and stuffed the box under the bed.</p><p>When he went to the couch where Napoleon was doing a fine imitation of the corpse. He was staring into space and looked like he did not even notice Ilya approaching. Ilya sat in front of him on a coffee table.</p><p>It was a lot to process.</p><p>“You have some questions? Go ahead?” Napoleon sounded hollow, detached, which was obviously a mask.</p><p>“I did not know…”</p><p>“That I was perverted?”</p><p>“About your preferences” Ilya offered. He thought of why Napoleon have not hidden the box better. Because he trusted Ilya, and considered him a friend. What did he expect Ilya to do now, go and rat him out to CIA? It’s just that Ilya never in million years would have guessed that Napoleon was into someone not wearing a skirt, that he liked the look of men in boots and trousers or wearing those stupid ‘pouches’, G-strings, men showing skin, men kissing, men on their knees… Ilya blushed again.</p><p>Sex between men in Russia was mostly a weapon – used to degrade, to weaken – just the idea of it dark, reminding of prison, connected with death. To voice such preferences was to be condemned. Here in U.S. while not accepted it seems it was still… a bit better. Those magazines under Napoleon’s bed were still published and sold, blatant and not fooling anyone as to their nature – yet allowed.</p><p>“It was a bit of research”, Napoleon said rather glumly.</p><p>“Oh,” Ilya somehow felt disappointed and then wondered at himself for being disappointed and then felt angry with himself for being disappointed.</p><p>Napoleon looked at him, just a quick glance under his lashes.


 “Nothing wrong with admiring good and strong and healthy body”, Ilya said. “I was on a gymnastic team when I was younger, and we had photographers coming and even posing for artists, so…”</p><p>He was startled when Napoleon started to laugh. “You are just full of surprises, Peril. I admire that”.</p><p>They looked at each other for a moment, and then both seemed to catch themselves. Ilya saw a bit of blush creeping on Napoleon’s face, which was a fetching look on him.</p><p>“We need to get ready”, Ilya said.</p><p>“Yeah,” Napoleon agreed. “Let me help you with cufflinks, you did them all wrong”.</p><p>XXX</p><p>The night Ilya left for his own apartment Napoleon was in sour mood. He returned from the office to empty rooms, changed into his dressing gown and went to flop on the bed. Something caught his eyes on Ilya’s former pillow. He squinted and let out a startled squeak.</p><p>The postcard – black and white – depicted a rather coy looking man in a cowboy hat, with dark hair, wearing flimsy excuse for shorts with the button open and zipper drawn halfway down.</p><p>The writing on the back was neat “For your research. Let me know, when you are done with it. Peril”.</p><p> </p>
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